


Hollow Me

by Orenildur



Series: The Void Behind My Teeth [1]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Characters act shady for plot reasons, Gen, It's going to get a whole lot worse before it ever gets better, Janus is mostly called Deceit for plot reasons, Mild mentions of violence/body wierdness/general cursed imagry typical of Remus, OC Antagonist (not a side), Post-Episode: Dealing with INTRUSIVE THOUGHTS, Post-Episode: Selfishness v. Selflessness, Pre-Episode: Putting Others First - Selfishness v. Selflessness Redux | Sanders Sides, Setting up dominoes for the next work in the series, Sympathetic Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Sympathetic Deceit | Janus Sanders, Tags May Change, This work may not have a happy ending but the series will, cursing, future/possible ships in later parts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:27:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27664697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orenildur/pseuds/Orenildur
Summary: During their nightly meeting in the Long Term Memory, Logan notices Deceit acting strangely.  Later that night, Remus also notices when Deceit pays him an unexpected visit.  Over the next few days he appears distracted, jumpy, afraid.  When he fails to appear at the meeting one night, Logan goes to the only other side who might know where he is.  When Deceit appears the next day, and the others are behaving strangely too, Logan and Remus must work together to figure out what's happening.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Morality | Patton Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders & Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders & Deceit | Janus Sanders, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders & Logic | Logan Sanders
Series: The Void Behind My Teeth [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2022833
Comments: 10
Kudos: 32





	1. What I Might Become

Logan was _miserable_.

 _‘Not miserable,’_ Logan corrected himself with a small adjustment of his glasses. 

He was merely experiencing an unusual level of discomfort from where he sat at Deceit’s _unnecessarily_ large walnut desk, which stood like an altar at the center of the maze of Thomas’s memory. The oppressive silence of the dimly lit room hung around him like a heavy blanket.

It was a library. It was a temple…

It was a _tomb_.

Deceit’s wing of the Long Term Memory was an endless, shifting labyrinth of dark, gleaming stone and polished wood. Warm light from unseen sources pooled in careful intervals along the dark marble floor of the cavernous, shadowed hall. Towering bookcases cast reflections like blades from bright, brass trim as they slid silently on hidden tracks around the space; each one filled with row upon row of innumerable leather bound books that could only be distinguished from each other by crisp, golden numbers along the spine.

At the heart of it sat Deceit himself, his desk covered with several open tomes for him to work on simultaneously; all three of his left hands writing in unison. Finished with one volume, he lifted it up with one gloved hand and it floated away to its home. He summoned another wordlessly from higher on the shelf, the soft brush of leather on wood unusually loud in the muffled quiet of the space.

Logan fought back a flinch at the sudden sound. 

The book floated down, opening with a flutter of pages as it settled gently on the surface before Deceit. He wasted no time returning to work, filling the page with an elegant, golden script as he recorded the agreed-upon memory. The smooth drag of his pen against paper refilling the oppressive quiet around them.

Once again Logan touched a finger to the corner of his glasses, seeking comfort in the familiar action as he watched the other side work. While he had no personal qualms with Deceit, he found that he disliked the nightly meetings in this place more and more as of late. 

It was Imposing by design.

A study in intimidation, with all the trappings and bleak luxury of a lawyer’s office (or some other pompous and self-important tyrant). Far removed from his own minimal, efficient — and not to mention _properly lit_ — corner of the Memory, where facts, figures, dates and other general information were stored. 

Perhaps it was because Deceit had been distant since his last interaction with the group at large and much less personable during their meetings. The usual easy banter between them was absent, replaced with clipped greetings and partings; speaking little more than what was required to do the work. 

Or, perhaps, it was because Patton had stopped joining them, shortly after the trial. While he’d always been stiff company around Deceit, for Logan, their constant needling of each other had made for sufficient distraction from the otherwise oppressive atmosphere. 

Perhaps it was the very _absence_ of said distraction that allowed his mind to wander and fully recognize the detestable “vibe” of this place.

Whatever the reason, Logan could sense a tension in the air that made him uneasy. He crossed the recently finished memory off of Patton’s notes and prepared to move on to the next, but found that they were done for the night. 

For a moment he lost himself in the static sound of Deceit’s writing and his thoughts wandered. He marveled at the other side’s stamina and, without realizing his mistake, wondered just how Deceit could write so much without getting a cramp.

Deceit let out a pained _hiss_ and set his pen aside, flexing the fingers of his primary left hand slowly and rotating his wrist a few times. He shot Logan a look that was only _mildly_ murderous as he began massaging his palm through his glove. As he worked, the other two hands halted their writing as well; his concentration well and truly broken.

“I only get cramps around _you_ , Logan,” he lamented, though Logan picked up the barest hint of genuine fondness beneath his exasperated tone.

“Apologies,” Logan replied, adjusting his glasses and pretending to be deeply absorbed in his own notes from the day.

Deceit left Logan to sit in his discomfort — and not _quite_ incalculable guilt — for being careless with his influence as he took his time working the ache out of his hand. Without the drone of Deceit’s pen, the silence draped around and between them, heavy and stifling in the faint twilight of the space.

Of course, to _Deceit_ , the room was not silent at all.

He was perpetually surrounded by the whispers of pages upon pages of memories all around them. Countless voices — most of them Thomas — speaking to him. _Calling_ to him. Days and weeks and years gone by, retired to the shelves. They were, at best, a distraction; so Deceit usually did his best to suppress them around others.

“Nearly done with this one,” he offered blithely. 

“Yes well...” Logan began, pointedly looking away from Deceit’s hands “I believe that’s the last one for tonight.”

“ _Fantastic,_ ” Deceit sighed, taking up his pen again. Once more the sound of pen on paper filled the silence between them and, for a moment, Logan hesitated.

“How-” he paused, searching for the proper sentiment, “-have you been, if I may ask?” 

For just a _beat_ too long perhaps, Deceit continued writing as if he hadn’t heard Logan speak. Logan shifted in his chair, wondering if he should ask again, when Deceit finally spoke. 

_“_ I’m _**fine** ,” _he said without bothering to look up. 

Logan noticed something strange in his voice that he couldn’t quite place. Something _off_ that itched at the periphery of his senses. He furrowed his brow, as he tried to deduce the cause, pondering implications and previous encounters.

“Everything’s **_fine_** ,” Deceit insisted, though more to himself, than to Logan. 

“Then I am glad that you are doing well,” Logan replied, collecting his notes and preparing to leave. 

That oddness to Deceit’s voice was there again, and Logan highly doubted that everything was, in fact, “fine,” but he would not press the issue.

At least not tonight.

“Taking off for the night?” Deceit asked, again without looking up from his work. Logan stood from his chair and tucked his carefully stacked notes against his chest.

“If you’d rather I stay…” he let the question hang unasked. Deceit let out a sharp, abortive bark of laughter which startled Logan once more.

“It’s **_fine_** , I can finish this up on my own,” Deceit all but scoffed, though there was little malice in his tone. One of his unoccupied hands made a _shooing_ motion at him and Logan felt ill prepared to fight him on it.

“Very well, goodnight Deceit,” he said, turning as if to go when Deceit spoke up again.

“I promise, I’m **_fine_**. Goodnight, Logan,” he said with an odd sort of finality that gave Logan pause. In the end, he simply nodded and left, walking briskly towards the exit as the bookshelves moved out of his path. 

Logan couldn’t place it, but there was something _off_ about the entire meeting. He was concerned and decided, right there and then, that he would get to the bottom of it.

 _Whatever “it” was_.

Deceit watched him leave, waiting until the bookcases slid closed behind him, before returning to his work. The hushed sound of whispering voices and ruffling pages filled the silence that Logan’s breathing had left, nearly enough to convince Deceit that he wasn’t alone. He normally enjoyed his solitude, but lately...

With a final flourish, he put the last words down into the last book for the night and sent it back home. 

He stood and waved a hand over his desk to straighten it up, while two other hands fussed with his overcape. Another hand lifted his hat, and yet another carded fingers through his hair before it’s brother righted the bowler on top of his head. When all hands were finished with their work, they slid back behind him and vanished. 

Satisfied, Deceit moved around the desk and towards the exit. The hollow _click_ of his heels against the stone filled the silence and echoed around him as one by one the lights went out. 

As he approached the exit, Deceit reached out with a thought. He _wanted_ a hallway, with doors, to walk down. One that would _presumably_ lead to his room, and so there _was one_. A trivial task for Roman who was likely too busy preparing for REM to notice that small draw on his power. 

Opening the door, the nondescript ( _drab_ , really, if Deceit had anything to say about it) hallway pieced itself together before him. Identical white doors marched down either side to a fine point some infinity away. 

_Good enough,_ he mused.

Deceit stepped out into the hall, the direction didn’t matter so much as the _intent_ of finding his own room among the endless doors; doors that began to pass faster and faster as the hallway seemed to collapse. He thought of Santa Claus and began walking, feeling the hall _shift_ around him. The focus of his thought pulled him towards his destination much quicker than he was actually walking. 

Deceit closed his eyes and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. When his eyes opened again, he stood before the tall, sleek, dark-wood door of his room. The satin finish on the brass handle nearly glowed in the strange half-light of the hall, as he opened the door and walked inside. 

Deceit sagged against the door as it closed behind him with a soft _click_. He breathed deeply, and let the familiar scent of damp soil and tropical plants wash over him. The room was warm, and he let the door support him, as he adjusted to the temperature. After a few moments, almost without thinking, an extra pair of hands pushed him off the door and into the room, vaguely in the direction of his wardrobe. 

He moved sluggishly, as if on instinct, as the third set of hands joined their brothers. They made quick work of stripping off his outer layers, setting his hat carefully in its place on the desk as he passed it. His overcape and coat were hung in their places, in the wardrobe, on smooth wooden hangers. 

Deceit turned to look in the mirror beside him; a tall ornate thing, compared with his otherwise minimalistic room. He took a moment to fuss over the buttons on his waistcoat, tugging and straightening.

_And Stalling._

Another moment or two of useless preening passed, as he worked up the courage to _check_. He unbuttoned the glove on his left hand and timidly began plucking at the fingertips. As the soft yellow fabric slid over the heel of his hand, he froze. 

_They were spreading._

He tore the glove away to reveal a long, black trail cutting down his palm, ending just above his wrist. The inky stains on his fingers now extended well below the second knuckle of each digit. They had appeared shortly before the trial as just a splotch; a careless mark from a pen. 

Except that Deceit wrote everything in _gold ink_. 

It wasn’t even really ink. It was some manifestation of his function. Regardless, he _never_ used black ink. Now, he was sure they were spreading, and he wasn’t quite sure what that meant.

And _that_ was what frightened him.

The sides changed when Thomas changed and now _he_ was changing. Deceit was terrified that, by forcing his hand at the trial, he had possibly darkened his own reputation. Enough that Thomas would change him into something even _more_ detestable than he was now. Something even _less_ trustworthy than the beguiling serpent. He took a few steadying breaths and pulled off his other glove.

The stains were there too.

He stared at his hands for a long while, flexing his fingers and feeling the ache seeping out of the dark stains. He then moved on to scrutinizing his face, checking to see if any physical changes had appeared there too. His scales gleamed in the warm light of his room, more gold than yellow, but otherwise looked unchanged— 

There was a _sound_. 

Somewhere behind him, over his shoulder in the darkened corners of his room; where the glow of the Edison bulbs didn’t quite reach.

_There was a whisper._

He strained to hear it. His eyes searching the reflection of the room behind him for some intruder he may have missed. But all he saw were his various plants and the corner of his large, sleek bed. For a tense few moments, he scanned the reflection. The quickened beat of his imaginary heart the only sound; a thrumming he could _feel_ in the fresh ink stain on his left hand, setting an ache deep in his bones. 

_“Lisssssssssten…”_

He could feel the pressure of the voice in his ears and he jumped! Spinning quickly on his heel, cane at the ready to attack — 

_There was nothing there._

In his panic, the only thing he thought to grab was his hat, as he rushed past his desk and moved from the room with _purpose_. Somewhere, far on the outskirts of their tiny, endless world, he would find a green door.

Any company was better than no company at all, when he needed it. Especially now, when he was certain of very little, besides the fact that he did _not_ want to be alone with his thoughts.

 _Not tonight_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings:  
> None this time around, we're just getting started folks.
> 
> Many and profuse thanks to the TSS Fanworks Collective Discord for helping me get this far! Specific thanks to IronWoman359, parallelmonsoon, and MammaNoxFox for beta-ing, help with grammar, and all the rest of their invaluable assistance!


	2. Upside Down And Inside Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check the notes at the end for warnings!
> 
> As always a huge and many thank yous to the TSS Fanworks Collective Discord (take the survey here to join us! https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/CPS7WB7)  
> Special thanks again to MommaNoxFox and parallelmonsoon for beta-ing and keeping me out of my editing hole!  
> Screaming at me about the story is not only welcomed, but wildly encouraged!

_Somewhere_ , deep in the bowels of the mindscape, hidden between the walls and under the floors of Roman’s _perfect_ little dollhouse, there was a _void._ A place _between_ places. A hollow pocket of forgotten space just a _hair_ too close to the subconscious for any other side to dare explore.

It was dark and empty and _quiet_ in the void.

_Remus liked it there._

Lacking all the usual distractions of his room or the side of imagination he presided over, he could actually _focus_ there. A feat which could, at times, be a tall order indeed for Remus. Ideas _swarmed_ around in his head like locusts, landing on any patch of calm large enough and ripping it apart with tiny, _pinchy_ mouth parts. 

Which was usually just _fine and dandy_ for him. The more ideas he had the more likely he’d have one the others would _listen to_. 

_Someday._

He pushed the thought from his mind as he floated towards the nebulous center of the void. 

The tiny ball of burgundy fur hissed up at him from where it had landed in his upturned palm. Shiny black legs crept over his skin leaving pin-prick tickles in their wake; its black eyes gleaming up at him with the most _adorable_ malice. Remus waggled a finger at the thought as the featureless slab of floor he’d made years ago slid into view. 

The thought _unhinged_ along an axis, revealing rows of needle-sharp teeth, as it tried to snap at the offending digit. 

“ _Cute_ ,” He chided it, curling his other fingers in and flicking it away into the abyss. 

The thoughts seemed to be native inhabitants of the void.

_Remus liked them too._

Quivering balls of hair and teeth and beady, black eyes. Their brightly colored fur in every texture from dryer lint to angora. They crawled and scurried over each other in an endless stream from some unfathomable depth, climbing over the rough edges of the platform as Remus touched down. 

The thoughts squeaked and chittered and crowded around as he sat cross-legged on the floating rectangle of floor. Each one scuttling on shiny, black, segmented legs that tapered to blunted points; which _tickled_ as they crawled up his arms and into his lap, desperately vying for his undivided attention. 

“Hello _darlings_ ~” he cooed as the flood of disjointed images began to flicker through his mind.

Sights and sounds enveloped Remus as the thoughts climbed over him. Each one a fragmentary piece, each one repeating the image or phrase or sound it carried as the _sum_ of its being. Each one crying out in their strange squeaking, hissing language to be heard. 

To be _used_. 

“You’re just _using_ me to get to my _brother_ you furry little _harlots_!” Remus pouted at the frenzied, jostling, unblinking mass of thoughts. 

For a moment every single thought — or, _at least_ , every thought that Remus could see on the platform with him — came to an abrupt halt, their cries dying in eerie unison. Like one great hive mind they shivered, producing an almost _deafening_ susurrus, like treetops thrown about in winds of a cat-five hurricane. Between the dozen or more thoughts still clinging to him, crowding out his own senses with their visions and the cacophonous _rustling_ all around him, Remus began to feel just a _bit_ overwhelmed.

“All right,” he began, brushing thoughts off his legs as he stood.

Various thoughts lost their grip and began falling off of his clothes and limbs, bouncing away across the floor. That helped lessen the tingling he felt creeping up his neck from his collarbone, but not _much_. He picked a carmine one off of his shoulder and an azure thought (which was _sticky_ for some unknowable reason) from the top of his head, dropping them too. 

“I missed you too-” he added, toeing a matted chartreuse thought away with his boot “-but it’s time to _work_ now…” 

They paid him no mind, climbing up and over each other in drifting piles of hair as they marched relentlessly towards Remus. 

“Are _any of you_ listening to me?” he asked hotly, scrabbling around to pull a surprisingly large violet one from his back and throwing it clear over the edge of the platform into the void below. 

He was answered by increasingly frantic shrieks and burbles as the horde of thoughts closed in. 

“I will _shave_ every single one of y-!” the threat cut off abruptly as he backed into what must have been a _tiny_ thought indeed. 

His heel pressed down on something soft and the image of a banana peel flooded his mind. 

The floor went _left._

Remus had the vague sensation of disagreeing with that decision, before coming to the sickening realization that the floor was _deeply_ disinterested in his opinion on the matter. 

Time never really _worked_ as expected in the void, but it had never slowed so much as the scant few moments it took Remus to come to the understanding that there was nothing between _him_ and the growing mound of ravenous thoughts but _air_. 

He fully expected the comforting grip of weightlessness to settle into his bones and hold him there; but weightlessness and gravity seemed to be fighting over him and his stomach _dropped_ at the struggle. Reaching the top of his arc, Remus discovered that gravity had won as a shock of cold dread bloomed behind his ribs. The shrill squeals of the thoughts beneath him were growing louder, _fast_ , and Remus had very little time to think.

 _‘Fuck.’_

He might have thought of Dee, who’d found him buried under a pile of thoughts a few years back where he’d been trapped for several days; unable to free himself from the cascade of images and sounds.

He might have thought of Thomas and the _splitting headache_ he was about to get, he might have even felt sorry if he’d had time...

Remus didn’t think of those things though. As the first feather-light brushes of fur tickled the back of his neck, he had time to think of only one thing:

He thought of _Roman_. 

Knowing somewhere, deep in the back of his mind, that his brother could surely feel the surge of _fear_ rushing through him. 

If he’d had time, Remus _might_ have laughed.

**_Static_ **.

Remus couldn’t be sure if he’d crashed into the mountain of thoughts or if _they’d_ crashed into _him_. A senseless tangle of images flashed through his mind. Short, abortive visions overlapping and cycling relentlessly. He willed his skull to split open, let the thoughts spill out, but his skull stubbornly refused despite the mounting pressure.

The tingling he’d felt before redoubled into a _shock_ , almost like being electrocuted. It passed through his far flung limbs in waves, too close to call between searing pain and total numbness.

 _‘-ittle_ **_red dots_ ** _all over the linoleum!’_

Dozens, perhaps _hundreds_ of thoughts drowned out any semblance of focus he had left.

 _Anguish_ **_crack_ ** _ing a face of stone-_

It took him several long minutes to even register the soft mound of shuffling bodies beneath him through all the **_noise_**.

 _‘-_ **_eep_ ** _moving!’_

Nothing made any sense, just piercing, clashing sights and sounds, tearing their way through any coherent thought that managed to struggle up to the surface, ripping it to shreds.

_‘I…’_

For a moment Remus felt himself tearing at the seams, the parts of him scattered among the ceaseless, shifting _bombardment_ of his senses. 

_Gold eyes_ **_shining_ ** _in the dark-_

For a moment, Remus was _lost_.

_‘lying to yourse-’_

He opened his mouth to scream…

No sound came out; only tiny thoughts falling into the open cavern of his mouth, pressing against the back of his throat. Hungry and eager for more empty space to touch, to share, to _be heard_. He registered his body spasm, desperate for the air he didn’t truly _need,_ but was still accustomed to _getting_. 

Panic cut cold and sharp through the fracas, a singular, blinding point of silver manifested as a thought he recognized as _his own_ :

_‘The only way out, is to go further in.’_

**_‘Beachball!’_ **

* * *

Deceit thought about carrots as he stalked down the hall. 

It was assembling _much_ slower this time, probably due to the fast approaching REM. His already _tenuous_ connection to Roman’s power stretched thin enough that there were only three doors ahead or behind where he stood. He paused just long enough to take his pocket watch from his waistcoat to check the time.

The oiled bronze snake looked up at him with twinkling topaz eyes from the case of the watch. Inside, the dial rode the line between N2 and REM.

_He didn’t have much time._

Walking again, Deceit tried to _think_ past the lingering voice he had heard in his room, to find something even _more_ detestable than _carrots_. Blood, bile, broken and splintered bones…

The live action Disney remakes…? 

Though he only ever walked forward, Deceit could _feel_ the hall turning slightly with each new thought. He walked as fast as his stride could comfortably take him, glancing occasionally to his watch; ticking ever closer to REM, almost in time with his hurried steps. 

The thought of being _trapped_ in an unfinished section of hall during the _entire REM_ shook him to his already shaken core. 

_‘Why does it have to_ move _?’_ Deceit thought ruefully to himself as his eyes darted frantically between the watch and the doors flying past him. 

Nothing could ever be _easy_ with Remus, oh no. Even in his current state it would be trivial to blink into The Duke’s room...

 _If_ Remus had actually _been_ there. 

Unfortunately, the further Deceit walked, the more sure he became that the side he was looking for was _elsewhere_. He fought past the tingling that ran up his neck and onto his scalp, struggling to keep his breathing even with his pace. If he couldn’t _keep it together_ before he reached his destination, well…

 _That_ was a door he most certainly did _not_ want to come across. 

* * *

Remus vaguely felt his right hand spasm out, desperately seizing the first thought that brushed against his palm and gripping it hard enough to _crush_. He felt the sharp points of chitinous legs dig into his flesh, the very _real_ sensation of pain grounding him; clearing _just enough_ of the jumbled images to let this _one_ through:

_‘Half is unsung-’_

_‘-alf is unsung-’_

_‘-s unsung-’_

It would have to do. 

Every disparate part of his being held on to that scrap of a phrase, letting the loop of it pull him deeper into the surging current of thought. He dove down with it, beneath the crush of surface level thoughts into the black abyss below. Fighting past the imaginary burning in his make-believe lungs, Remus _reached_. 

Down, down, _down..._

Though Remus remained motionless, his consciousness swam, _drowning_ in the hazy space between his body in the mindscape and the _truth_. Blindly he sought with desperate, _buzzing_ fingers for the core of him. 

An _integral_ part of him, yet wholly separate; somewhere deep inside, yet _impossibly_ far away. 

Through the haze, with the thought echoing in his ears on an endless loop, he felt his fingers brush against smooth, emerald glass. 

Remus but _not_.

Part of him… 

_All of him_.

Inside and outside and _nowhere at all_.

In an _instant_ Remus felt the far flung parts of him begin to stitch back together, centered upon the point of contact with his core. The very _essence_ of him searing lines of brilliant _green_ along the seams. The light burned so _hot_ and so _fast_ that the excess poured out from his eyes, his mouth, his every open pore…

 _Until he was shining with it._

With the struggling thought in one hand, he wrapped the other around the broken orb. Obsidian smooth, obsidian _sharp_. The raw edge of the hemisphere sliced into his palm, the bite bringing the final pieces into place and cutting a swath of _clarity_ through the din.

“ _Focus!”_

He felt his airway clear and his chest _surged_ up. 

Razor thin rings of green light pulsed out from where his body lay on the shifting mountain of thoughts, pushing the colorful creatures away from him, over the edge, and into the waiting black below. 

Slowly the _static_ coursing along his nerves began to fade, replaced with the startling _physicality_ of his form. Remus shivered against the hard, cold floor as pins and needles thrummed across his limbs, pulsing in time with his imaginary heart and the rings of light still surrounding him, _shielding him_. 

When the ringing in his ears finally stopped, Remus opened his eyes and looked around. He forced himself into a sitting position, struggling against the weight of his barely responsive limbs. He was alone inside his barrier of green light, which held the thoughts at bay as he tried to stop himself from _laughing_.

_When had he started laughing?_

He looked down and saw his left arm buried nearly up to the elbow in his chest, and not even in the _fun_ way. No sticky dark blood ran down his arm to collect in shining pools on the floor. No pressure of curious, wriggling fingers playing at his imaginary ribs. Just _static_ up and down the part of it sunk into his hollow chest and the feeling of green, _green_ glass cutting into his palm. 

Remus released his grip on his core and pulled his arm free of himself. 

There was no blood.

* * *

Just as he was about to break into a sprint, Deceit felt something _yank_ him to the right, nearly off his feet. He skidded to a halt, throwing an arm out to brace against the wall beside him. Two doors ahead of him, on the right, was a _different_ door. 

It was _black_ instead of green and Deceit would have made a _great show_ of rolling his eyes but he simply didn’t have the _time_. He pushed himself from the wall and gave a sharp pull to the hem of his waistcoat to right himself before crossing the distance and throwing open the black door. 

The door shut behind him with a heavy _bang_ and he forced himself to halt, the patch of floor inside little more than two feet wide before vanishing into nothingness beyond. Pressing his back into the door behind him, Deceit took a deep breath, trying to quiet his hammering heart.

His eyes slid shut, reaching up a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. _Only then_ did he notice that he was still _ungloved_ , feeling the skin of his nose with the blackened pads of his fingers. He tried to release the breath he’d been holding, but found himself smothered by a wad of cloth digging into his palm.

Looking down he saw his gloves in the white-knuckle grip of his right hand. Deceit forced himself to take another deep, slow breath and took in the emptiness around him. With shaking hands he yanked his gloves back on, all the while attempting to even out his breathing. 

With an entrance like _that_ he was sure Remus knew he was there.

* * *

“Now I’m _not_ angry-” Remus began, raising his voice to carry out to the sea of thoughts clustered around his barrier, “-but once Daddy’s done _work-ing_ -” he passed an icy glare over the excitable mass as he emphasized the word, “-we’re going to have a nice, _long_ discussion about _consent_.” 

He fit his hands against the small of his back and paced the edge of the barrier with long, snappish strides. The looks he cast at certain thoughts so _forceful_ in their withering that Remus _forced himself_ to blink just to make sure his eyes didn’t shoot out of his skull. 

_Still_ , Remus thought, coughing up another wad of discarded fur, he could hardly stay mad at the little bastards. 

A loud _bang_ rippled through the void, echoing despite the lack of walls into the infinite black beyond. Remus’s head snapped to the source of the sound; or, rather, it _tried to_. His head spun several times on his neck, twisting it up a full three inches taller before spinning rapidly back down. 

He rarely got _visitors_ , which could mean only one thing!

A grin crept up the sides of his face as he stalked to the center of the floor, dropping into a cross-legged sit.

“Company’s coming, _babies_!” he cooed to the crush of thoughts pressed up against the barricade. Their answering cacophony of shrieks and trills matched the excitement he could feel ripping along just under his skin. 

There was only _one_ other side _fool enough_ to go traipsing around _this_ close to the subconscious. Remus screwed his eyes closed trying to picture Deceit, the _hat_ and the _gloves_ and the _gleaming, yellow eye_. When he had the image steady enough he pushed the thought from his mind and felt a soft _thump_ in the open palm he held in front of him. 

Opening his eyes, Remus saw a _tiny_ ball of soft orange fur, which _pipped_ quietly as it scuttled around his hand with sharp little feet. As it continued exploring his hand, an image of a yellow, slitted eye and shining scales flashed through his mind.

“That’s right!” Remus crowed, patting the thought with a finger. “Dee is on his way and we need someone to show him in,” he regarded the thought well… _thoughtfully,_ before making up his mind _._ “You’re a _smart one_ , I think you’ll do _nicely_ ,” he beamed.

The thought let out a watery trill, still unused to its voice, and skittered a small circle on wobbly legs. Remus smiled down at it fondly, feeding the thought with more images of Deceit. The golf ball sized lump began to grow, larger and larger as he _pushed_ more energy into it. When it was large enough (about the size of a soccer ball) Remus stemmed the flow of thoughts and held the shivering clump of hair between his hands. 

The thought looked back at Remus, unblinking delight sparkling in its tiny, black eyes. He tilted his head as he regarded the thought, shifting it to one hand and weighting it carefully as he pondered. Its long, slender legs folded around the flat of Remus’s hand for stability as he slowly bobbed it up and down. With a _snap_ of his fingers _nearly_ as loud as the slamming door, Remus again held the thought between both of his hands and shook it, once, _very gently_. 

“That’s it!” he cried, giggling softly to himself as the thought squealed its own excitement back at him. “I’ll call you _Clump_.”

A shudder, stronger than its usual shivering had been, passed through Clump as it absorbed its name into itself. Clump let out a strong, clear, _joyous_ trill and wiggled its free hanging legs in the air excitedly. Not every thought got a name from Remus, in fact, very few did. This was a high honor indeed for Clump, who _cherished_ its new name as if it had always been a part of it. 

“Alright Clump,” Remus said, standing with one alarmingly fluid motion and walking towards the barrier; “you go find Sunny Dee and bring him back here,” he instructed. Clump cooed brightly in reply.

With a final nod at Clump, he held it out before him and, dropping it, punted the thought out into the void. Clump sailed over the rings of light, shrieking the whole way, until some invisible force caught it, preventing the thought from falling into the abyss.

“And don’t even _think_ about coming back without him!” Remus called after it, settling himself back onto the floor and letting another thought approach.

Clump shook itself and scuttled away into the dark, searching for Deceit.

It gurgled to itself softly. Being given an _important_ mission scant _moments_ after being born was a high honor for a tiny thought such as itself! 

Ahead of Clump was only darkness and vast, empty space. The hoots and cries of its brethren faded far behind as Clump scuttled resolutely forward into the unknown. It wasn’t sure where to go to _find_ Deceit, but something in its carapace _pulled_ and, with _literally_ no other thoughts in its head, Clump dutifully followed. 

Weightlessness was strange to Clump, as thoughts such as it usually plummeted into the black below to begin their climb anew. It was _delighted_ that Remus had chosen _it_ to experience something _new_ . Then again, thought Clump, _everything_ was new to it at this point. The _pull_ in its carapace shifted a bit and Clump obediently scuttled a little more to the right. 

In order to keep its spirits up on the long journey ahead, Clump began to _sing_.

* * *

Deceit could hear the loud, discordant string of ‘ _las_ ’ from where he stood by the door. It didn’t sound like Remus though, the voice was too high, too _child-like_ to be one of the sides. Soon enough, a small pile of orange fur bobbed into view; it wobbled and swayed as it came closer to his post, as if it was unused to moving through the void. Deceit visited Remus often enough to be _familiar_ with the thoughts, but he had never heard one _sing_ before.

“And who are you, Fuzzball?” He asked, kneeling down as close to the ledge as he dared. 

As the thought approached, Deceit reached out a hand and the thought made a bee-line for it. It made a kind of _gargling-coughing_ noise that he could _swear_ sounded like _‘Clump’,_ and, now that he got a better look at the thing, it certainly did _look_ like a ‘Clump’. 

The thought arched into Deceit’s open palm and let out a soft trill. Images of _himself_ flashed through his mind; not the usual, singular, vision on loop but _multiple_ concepts all representing a central theme: _Deceit_.

“ _Clump_ , was it?” He asked, nodding slowly as if he understood when the thought repeated the garbled sound. 

_Clump it was, then_. 

Clump whistled and _meeped_ , scuttling in small, somewhat encouraging circles, as if to say: _‘follow me!’_

Deceit stood, another sharp tug to the hem of his waistcoat to straighten it, then gestured out to the void behind Clump for it to lead the way. Clump let out a rapid string of clicks and burbles (which Deceit took to mean excitement) as it lumbered around and boldly shuffled forward into the dark.

With one hand over his middle to keep his waistcoat from riding up again, Deceit sank into a low crouch, practically sitting on his heels. After a brief, steadying breath he _pushed_ off the patch of floor as hard as he could, out into the void. 

No matter how many times he visited, there was always that terrifying moment, just before the weightlessness latched onto his bones, where he thought he might fall. 

He never did.

* * *

Remus weighed the thoughts carefully. One in each hand, turquoise in the left, vermilion in the right, he closed his eyes one at a time to see the visions they held. 

Behind his left eye he saw: a t-rex in a tutu bounding loudly, and in slow motion, through a field of flowers with human faces singing The Beatles _Strawberry Fields Forever._

Behind his right he saw: a cliff by the edge of a windswept sea, the clouds overhead _green_ with water and just _itching_ to tear open and drown the world below; then he started _falling_.

Before he could react to the sensation of the thought Remus heard the other thoughts beyond the barrier start... _cheering?_ Opening his eyes Remus saw Clump off in the distance, Deceit floating bemusedly behind with his hands in his pockets, collected as ever. 

Except he _wasn’t_.

Deceit’s usual attire was _different_ , his coat and cape strangely _absent_. Instead, he touched down on the platform beside Remus sporting just his yellow shirt and his grey and gold waistcoat. Remus _rarely_ saw Dee in anything less than his full complement of layers. Something was _wrong_ here but he couldn’t fathom _what_. 

Hardly registering the movement, Remus lifted the turquoise thought over his head and sent it to Roman. The vibrating heap vanished with a soft _woomph_ as he stood, brushing off his hands on his pants. Deceit regarded him cooly, fiddling with the buttons on his gloves and waistcoat. Remus nearly opened his mouth to protest when a soft nudge against his boot drew his attention to the floor. 

Clump, very gently, pushed what Remus could only _assume_ to be its face against his ankle. A soft sound, almost like purring, accompanied the action which Clump repeated after a small gap, patiently waiting for Remus to acknowledge it. 

“What did you do to Clump?” Remus asked, instead of the dozen other questions that, in hindsight, _should_ have been much more pressing.

“Nothing at all!” Dee scoffed, his gloved hand fluttering to his chest in exaggerated outrage. His fingers blindly groped for the clasp of his cape, a flash of realization crossing his face, before he turned the motion into pretending to check his nails. 

Remus gestured _emphatically,_ with nearly his entire body, at the orange wad of hair sitting calmly by his foot. Having been acknowledged, Clump stood up, and scuttled in a small circle before sitting again beside Deceit. 

“Thoughts don’t have _manners_ , Snake N’ Bits!” Remus elaborated, grasping the air in Clump’s direction as it nuzzled contentedly against Dee’s shoe. Dee shrugged perhaps a bit _too_ flippantly as he regarded Clump with a cool indifference that set off yet more of Remus’s alarms. 

“Thoughts don’t usually _sing_ either, but Clump here managed to carry a tune when it found me,” Dee remarked casually, as if that absolved him. 

Remus's eyebrows shot up nearly to his hairline as he glanced quickly between Dee and the creature in question. Clump hummed wetly from where it sat, hunkered down beside Dee’s right foot. It was, indeed, a more musical sound than he was used to hearing from the shrieking masses... Remus gestured with both hands, as if physically pushing the whole conversation to the side, he would deal with Clump later. 

“So,” Remus began, passing his hand over the floor to summon something more comfortable to sit on, “what brings you to the detestable pit from whence I came?” 

After several attempts, the mound of blankets and pillows he conjured was _neither_ moldy _nor_ murderous, which was good enough for him. Dee appeared to agree, as he skillfully dodged Remus’s question by busying himself with arranging the haphazard pile into something more manageable. Remus, meanwhile, choked back his irritation at being ignored as the rising susurrus of the thoughts beyond the barrier grew louder and more frantic. 

“-ould hardly call it _detestable_ ,” Dee was saying when Remus finally managed to wrestle his attention back from the thoughts to his guest.

“I think it’s more of a _Stanley_ , myself,” Remus replied distractedly as he retook his position and let another pair of thoughts through.

“Stanley _does_ seem like a fitting name for an endless void of this caliber,” Dee agreed solemnly, settling into the nest of blankets with as much decorum as one can muster when settling into a nest of blankets. 

Clump shimmied up after him, unfolding a small pocket of blanket with delicate little movements of its forelegs before scuttling a few tight circles and settling down beside Dee. For all he tried to hide it behind a bemused smirk, Remus could see genuine fondness pull at the corners of Dee’s eyes as he gave Clump a few soft pats. 

“Hope you don’t mind me working through your visit,” Remus said, weighting another pair of thoughts and sending a cream colored one up to Roman with another soft _woomph._ Dee didn’t respond so much as hum in the vague affirmative, which Clump parroted a moment after. 

Remus didn’t ask about Dee’s unusual state of undress.

He didn’t ask about the darting looks his friend kept sending into the void as if he expected something to be there. 

He didn’t comment on the slamming door, or the obvious distress he could read in the too-tense line of Dee’s shoulders. 

Remus didn’t even needle him about his mask of casual boredom which was as brittle and false as the companionable silence that stretched out between them. 

He didn’t ask about _any of it_. 

_Whatever_ it was that had him spooked, it must have been _bad_. Remus had expected Dee to visit after the trial but _this_ was something else... 

There wasn’t nearly enough _bitching_ on Dee’s part. 

This wasn’t Dee’s usual dramatic moping, this was _advanced_ moping, and it bothered Remus to no end. He knew better than to press Dee for answers, he’d get nothing but a static of snide remarks and deflections in return. This didn’t seem like something he could fix with dirty jokes or _vaguely_ threatening pep-talks…

It might not be something he could fix _at all_ …

And that _worried_ him. 

* * *

Judging by the dim blue glow washing through the kitchen window, Roman guessed that the sun was threatening to rise any minute now. He leaned heavily against the counter as he waited for his second pot of coffee to finish brewing; trying to hide the faint tremor in his hands as the rushing, gurgling sound of the machine sparked memories of the dream that had robbed him of his sleep that night.

_His body quickly numbing in the frigid water as he pounded uselessly against the thick ice trapping him there…_

He startled out of the thought, turning to rest his hip against the counter as he ground the heels of his hands once more into his tired, aching eyes. He took a deep, steadying breath because he _could_ , and that helped ground him slightly. 

_Lungs burning, limbs growing heavier by the second, his fevered assault against his frozen prison more feeble with each strike…_

Once more, Roman dragged his mind away from the dream, gazing at the light rising in the window; a light which promised sunshine and _warmth_. It was a small reprieve…

_The darkness of the fathomless lake below crept into the corners of his eyes, his vision blurring as the halo of light above him grew dimmer and dimmer. The weight of the water in his clothes and his unresponsive limbs dragging him down into the abyssal pit of dread beneath him…_

_Dulling…_

_Dimming…_

_Fading into the water’s dark embrace…_

Roman took a sharp, heaving breath as he snapped himself from the thought once more and found he was halfway through fixing his… 

He wasn’t sure, he’d lost count somewhere… 

Fixing _another_ cup of coffee. He drank it slowly, savoring the blessed _warmth_ that washed through him. He didn’t usually take his coffee black, but he needed the bitter taste to keep him anchored to _this_ reality, and not the one from the dream.

It wasn’t that Roman _never_ had nightmares, they were just rarely as _vivid_ as this one had been. There was, in his experience, only _one_ reason for a harrowing dream to _cling_ to him so:

_Remus._

It was going to be a **_long_** day _._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Specific Warnings:  
> Character experiences something similar to sensory overload, Character experiences something similar to drowning, mentions of drowning, mentions of blood, mentions of glass/cutting, general surrealism verging on mild body horror associated with Remus, swearing/cursing.


	3. Better In The Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whelp it certainly was December at my house for a while! This rewrite took a little longer than expected but I think it's completely worth the extra time. I hope y'all are ready for a whole lotta Roman and Remus cause that's all we're gonna have for the next couple chapters!
> 
> Thanks as always to the TSS fanworks server (take the survey here to join us! https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/CPS7WB7) for keeping me going during the rewrite! Special thanks to MammaNoxFox and parallelmonsoon, for beta-ing and Ptolomeia for being the BEST rubber duck!

Whether he liked it or not, the sun made good on its threat and rose while Roman nursed his bitter coffee; trying to come up with a plan, despite the fog of exhaustion that crept through his mind and settled at the backs of his eyes. 

From his position, leaning against the counter with his back to the window, Roman couldn’t _see_ the sun climbing steadily behind him, but he could _feel_ it. The gentle warmth of the morning light spread over the back of his neck and shoulders, banishing the bitter chill of his nightmare and making him drowsy as he soaked it up. 

Roman shook himself, taking another long sip of coffee. It was far too late to try and sleep now, and it would likely be as futile as the other attempts he’d made earlier in the night. No, that ship had sailed hours ago. 

Now was a time for _action_. 

He was _certain_ that the fear he’d felt last night had not been his own. While the sharp edges may have dulled over time, the memory of it _lingered_. It settled in his bones in a way that made the collar of his jacket feel tight around his throat, and made his whole body tense at some unseen threat.

Much as Roman would rather avoid it, he had to have a talk with Remus. 

While it was true that his connection to Remus had begun growing stronger, in the days since he’d introduced himself to Thomas, Roman hadn’t felt anything nearly as strong as that sudden jolt of _fear_ in years. 

And Remus, of them all, was not an easy side to frighten.

He couldn’t quite remember when the nightmares had begun, but it was most certainly _before_. 

He could remember _other_ nights and other _nightmares_ , back when he and Remus had shared a room, waking in a cold sweat and seeking out his brother. It never mattered where Remus had gone to hide, Roman would follow the _pull_ of his fear and find him every time; sometimes huddled and shaking, sometimes staring into the dark. His face haunted by thoughts that Roman _literally_ could not imagine, that wasn’t his function.

But it had never felt like _this_ before...

Something had happened. Something was _wrong_ and, loathe as he was to admit it, Roman was worried. His worry, however, was not the most distasteful admission he had to make that morning. Basking as he was in the rising heat, Roman felt the siren song of sleep ringing in his bones; calling him to put the whole thing off till tomorrow and go back to the warm embrace of his bed. 

Roman’s eyes slipped closed at the thought.

_Icy water rushing down his throat to replace what little air remained-_

He startled from the vision with a gasp, clutching his still-warm mug of coffee tightly to feel the heat of it. His shadow stretched across the kitchen, on most days a quiet companion, but today… Roman couldn’t shake the feeling of its silent judgement. 

No, he _couldn’t_ put it off until tomorrow. There had already been far too many ‘tomorrows’ between his last talk with his brother and now. Tired or not, Roman could still feel the frigid fingers of Remus’s dread curled around his core. Perhaps he was worried over nothing, perhaps he wasn’t. Roman didn’t know.

What Roman _did_ know, was that he would have no rest until he found out.

“Oh, good morning, Prince Yawnin’,” Patton’s bright greeting cut through Roman’s sluggish thoughts, and jolted him back to the present.

“M-Mornin’ Padre,” Roman replied, trying to hide the strain in his voice. If Patton caught it, he said nothing as he made his way for the coffee pot. 

Pat took his time fixing his coffee; silence settling between them like a stiff hug. It was an impersonal silence, distant and awkward, as most such spans of quiet had been since the trial. With each _tink tink tink_ of the spoon against the sides of his worn, favored mug, Roman felt the invisible band around his ribs tightening like a ratchet strap. As quietly as he possibly could, Roman began counting out his breaths, trying to loosen the crushing pressure of Patton’s presence. 

Roman needed an _exit_.

He just didn’t have the stomach for any more of Pat’s platitudes, not after last night, not with what he had to do today. If he had to hear one more well meant — but ultimately meaningless — line about doors or windows or _silver linings,_ he was positively going to _pop_. Empty words full of empty calories, when Roman’s troubled conscience craved more _nourishing_ fare. He’d come up with _something_ , some trite little excuse to be on his way. He just needed time to _think_ …

“You’re up awful early, big plans today?” Pat asked earnestly, sipping his coffee as he leaned against the counter across from Roman.

_So much for that_.

Almost _automatically,_ Roman took a steadying breath and put himself into suspension. The imaginary string above him _pulled_ and his head floated, tipping casually to the side as the rest of him subtly fell in line beneath it. His shoulders squared _just so,_ his back straightening (but not _so much_ that he didn’t look relaxed), his features smoothing; burying his exhaustion beneath carefully positioned eyebrows, and the most self-assured smirk he could muster.

And, if he couldn’t _quite_ manage to bring the glowing coals of the fire in his eyes back to life, Patton didn’t seem to notice. 

He crossed his legs at the ankles, shifting his lean against the counter, which dug painfully into his lower back. Roman hid the grimace masterfully, any discomfort firmly ignored in favor of appearing well rested and ready for a day of adventure. 

Even his fingers changed their grip around his mug, when Patton closed his eyes to take another sip of coffee. 

Roman was _on_ , and waiting for his cue.

When Patton finished drinking and met his gaze again, Roman was ready with his lines.

“Nothing _concrete_ ,” he began, desperately willing the hamsters in his head to run faster at their wheels, “felt like _really_ taking up the quest to find that _spark_ , y’know?” He watched Patton closely, gauging his reaction. 

Patton hummed thoughtfully in response.

“I’ll probably be in the imagination all day,” Roman continued, feeling slightly sick “inspiration is in there, _somewhere,_ and I aim to find it!” He pushed as much enthusiasm as he could muster, lifting his mug as if toasting to the success of his — fabricated — adventure; all while hiding the twist of guilt in his guts from the pride _sparkling_ in Patton’s eyes.

“Well I’m sure you’ll find your spark, Kiddo,” Patton replied, lifting his own mug with a warm smile. 

Roman couldn’t help but smile back, warm and real, despite the scaly coils constricting around his heart.

Despite the _lie_.

_‘Patton simply wouldn’t_ _understand_ ,’ Roman thought as he downed the rest of his coffee. 

If Roman had been _honest_ , if Patton had known where he was really going, would he be disappointed? Lately, that would be nothing new, which was a far more bitter taste than the coffee as he swallowed it down. Acutely aware of Patton’s eyes following him across the kitchen, Roman moved to the sink to rinse out his mug.

Sure, after Remus’s introduction, he’d given Thomas _permission_ to think about the things that his brother suggested, but Roman wasn’t sure how Pat actually _felt_ about the Duke. They hadn’t talked about it. Then again… They hadn’t really talked about much at all since the trial. 

Nothing that _mattered_ , at least. 

Roman couldn’t be sure, and as much as he’d rather not find out, he was fairly certain he could withstand Patton’s disappointment. What he _couldn’t_ allow, was the chance that Pat might try to _stop him_. What little resolve that thought offered was sharp, hard to hold without cutting himself on it. 

He was _going_ to see his brother today, come what may and if Patton knew he was lying, Roman would just have to deal with the consequences later. He imagined Deceit would have a good laugh at his expense when this was all over.

Mug clean and draining in the rack, Roman made his excuses and, with a valiant wave, moved from the kitchen _with purpose_. 

Reaching what would have been the front door of the slightly modified mental mock-up of Thomas’s apartment, Roman paused. With a sharp snap of his fingers, he threw open the door to reveal a wide, brightly lit hallway with polished marble floors that reflected the subtle sheen of the red damask covered walls. Identical, white, six-paneled doors with gleaming gold trim marched on ahead of him, mingling with the other ostentatious ornamentation to some fine point beyond the horizon.

The moment the door closed behind him, Roman _deflated_. The string from the top of his head going slack, though never fully cut…

His shoulders dropped and his long, regal stride choked back into a much more comfortable gait. He walked unhurried — almost haltingly — down the hall for a few paces, before coming to an unsteady stop. 

One didn’t simply walk the halls of the greater mindscape and _hope_ they’d arrive at their destination, he had to know where he was _going_. He took a moment to focus on the most foul and unpleasant thing he could possibly imagine…

Roman had _nothing_.

While forcing himself into suspension had done a wonderful job of clearing his earlier mental fog, spurring him into his sixth... (seventh?) _probably_ seventh wind, it had also drained much of what little remained of his energy for the day. Try as he might, Roman just couldn’t fathom anything _worse_ than the queasy feeling lingering in his gut from lying to Patton… And that wasn’t _nearly_ good enough to get him to Remus.

It had just been _too easy_ , and that was what made Roman feel _uneasy_ now. 

Without much thought, he began walking again. It was most assuredly _not_ a good idea to go aimlessly wandering the halls, but Roman was a side of _action,_ and standing still had _never once_ been a friend to proper idea generation. 

_‘Pat just… wouldn’t understand,’_ Roman assured himself again, as he tried to clear his mind enough to focus on finding his brother.

It seemed like a cheap excuse, but it was _true_. As far as he’d ever been able to tell, _none_ of the other sides were _tethered_ to each other as he was to Remus. A bond so strong that, in the early days before he’d learned to tune it out, it could even override his connection to _Thomas_ on occasion, when Remus was upset enough.

_‘It’s… better this way,’_ Roman reasoned, ornate doors passing on either side of him in neatly measured intervals. 

It wasn’t _exactly_ that the others didn’t _know,_ there had been more than enough _psychic twin_ jokes for his liking _before_ , despite the fact that it didn’t really _work_ that way. 

Roman had no idea what Remus might have been thinking at that moment, but he could feel the _echoes_ of his brother’s shifting, tumultuous emotions. Each one a visceral, _physical_ sensation, that he had no choice but to feel until it passed. No matter how hard he tried, Roman could never _completely_ shut out his brother’s feelings. 

The lingering feeling of Remus’s fear, from the night before, was an _ache_ Roman felt, deep in his joints; as if he was _finally_ thawing out, after spending the entire night treading freezing water.

Roman felt the hall _shift_ with his thought. Turning, ever so slightly, in a way that made the ache in his joints flare up. One of the doors on his right fell away as he passed, opening up into an identical hallway. Roman barely registered himself turning to follow it.

The ache grew sharper.

* * *

A questioning, solo oboe slithered its way through Remus’s mind, warbly and unsure and scarcely accompanied by shrill notes from some _asshole_ with a piccolo every so often. 

Roman was worried.

Judging by the way the faint music grew slowly, _slightly_ louder, his brother was also _probably_ coming to see him. 

_Great._

As if he didn’t already have _enough_ on his mind.

Remus counted out the measures, foot bouncing in time as he waited for — _there it was_ — the muted french horn solo, feebly calling out as Roman tried to bolster himself and drown out the players of his _bad_ feelings. Roman must’ve been in a _really_ bad way if there was only one. His normal bluster and confidence was usually a whole brass band of bullshit. 

He licked his fingers clean of the motor oil drizzled over his bowl of packing peanuts as the woman on the TV screamed like her paycheck depended on it. Remus tried to ignore the sound of Roman’s feelings and focus on what Thomas _thought_ the movie _Hostel_ was about, settling deeper into the threadbare, brown, corduroy couch, which took up the middle of his room.

He hadn’t had much more than the trailer to go off of, but from what he’d gathered from Thomas’s friends, _his_ version was much better.

_Then the bassoon started up._

So Roman was worried about _him_ . Fantastic. Any hope Remus had that his brother might just be on his way _somewhere else_ evaporated. With a _deeply_ put-upon groan, Remus paused the ‘movie’ and let his head hit the broken backrest of the couch with a dull _thud_. He wasn’t going to be able to ignore the symphony of Roman’s worries for much longer.

He supposed he should get his room ready for when the Prince eventually showed up. 

* * *

Roman walked the halls in a delicate balancing act, between _thinking_ about the nightmare and simultaneously _not_ trying to think about it too hard, following the ache in his hands and every clear turn the hall presented him with almost absent-mindedly. 

_Standing on the ice of a frozen lake, his every muscle screaming from the effort of remaining perfectly still..._

He couldn't be sure how long he'd been searching for Remus — a precise sense of time wasn't really his department — but it certainly _felt_ like longer than it should have taken. He wondered idly about that, taking the next turn as a door to his left dropped away to reveal yet another identical hallway, before coming to an abrupt halt.

Before him stood a deep violet door.

The paint was streaky and uneven in a way that _looked_ unintentional to the untrained eye but, Roman knew, was _entirely_ on purpose. He stood for only a moment, blinking at the door, as he wondered how he could have ended up at Virgil's room by mistake, before turning sharply on his heel and doubling back.

_The deep, hollow crack of the ice below him sending chills up his spine more numbing than the bitter cold wind at his back..._

Maybe chasing down the _fear_ the nightmare had left him with wasn’t such a good idea, but it was the only lead he had, still too tired to properly focus on the kind of thoughts that usually led him to his brother.

_Looking down to see one foot on either side of a dark, jagged chasm to the icy water below; widening with each passing moment until-_

Still more focused on his thoughts than where he was going, Roman took the next turn (a right this time) and nearly walked face-first into Virgil’s door.

_Again?_

Once more he swung around, back into the shifting maze of halls that was the greater mindscape and tried to find his bearings. 

Just how long _had_ he been searching? 

Roman walked unhurried, though the tension in his legs all but _begged_ him to run, to sprint, to fly around corners till he found Remus’s door or the door to the apartment (whichever was closer). He did none of those things, ambling casually down the hall and desperately trying to think of another strategy. 

Clearly, forcing himself to relive the nightmare over and over wasn’t working. He’d _always_ been able to track Remus down by his fear before, and last night… Roman had felt it so strongly that it may as well have been _his own_ … 

Another door fell away as he approached.

Another turn-

Another hall...

_A purple door_.

“ _Son of a-_ ” Roman was quick enough to catch the curse, growling instead to release his frustration. He was getting _nowhere._

Roman could only _hope_ that Virgil was either listening to his headphones or _elsewhere_ as the sharp sound of his own voice rang back from the walls that felt much _closer_ than the other hall’s had been. 

_The doorknob began to turn…_

_So much for that._

The string went taut once more, dragging Roman with it to his full height. He threw his shoulders back and buried his exhaustion and frustration beneath a mask of more _placid_ confusion. 

_He was just a little lost._

_Too many ideas flowing through him to properly focus on where he was going._

_‘So sorry to bother you, Virgil’_. 

That would _work_ , though Roman was tempted to turn and run; hope against hope to make it around the corner before the door _opened_. 

_Anything_ but be forced to lie to _another_ side.

The doorknob _paused_ in its turning and, without much thought at all, Roman _valiantly_ bailed. 

He turned so sharply his boot _screeched_ against the polished marble floor as Roman all but _threw_ himself around the corner and down the hall. With every ounce of his meager ability to _focus_ concentrated on getting _away_ , Roman didn’t notice the hall bend and blur around him; _folding_ like the edges of a kaleidoscope pattern. 

He didn’t notice the sharp left turn he rounded in his flight.

He didn’t see the purple door swinging open ahead of him, nor the shadowed room beyond.

Roman _certainly_ didn’t notice _Virgil_.

Standing a step or so outside the threshold of his room, the questioning call of Roman’s name dying in his throat as The Prince all but _charged_ down the hall at him. By the time Roman realized what was happening it was already too late to stop. 

He _crashed_ headlong into Virgil. 

The force of the impact tipped his balance just a _hair_ too far as his back hit the polished marble floor, sliding nearly a foot in the opposite direction. Virgil had stumbled but managed to brace against the door frame behind him, squawking in surprise, but still on his feet. His left hand flying to his chest to grip the soft fabric of his hoodie and still his, likely, hammering heart.

“ _Roman!?_ What the _hell_ man?” Virgil snapped, eyes darting all around the edges of him but never actually _meeting_ Roman’s wide-eyed stare.

_‘Think, think, THINK!’_ Roman desperately thought, waiting for the string to go taut…

Virgil’s labored breathing took on a familiar rhythm as he calmed himself, his surprise fading into concern as he continued to trace the _outline_ of Roman with his eyes.

_‘No time!’_ He lamented as the string remained mercilessly lax, leaving him floundering on his own.

“S-sorry, Virge…” he muttered, unable to come up with anything better. Virgil’s concern turned quickly into suspicion, his eyes narrowed as they finally met Roman’s and held them, frozen, under the sudden scrutiny. 

For a moment Roman could hardly even _breathe_ as he desperately tried to come up with some kind of explanation and, once again, had _nothing_. Virgil’s stony silence did _even less_ to ease his worry. The icy tendrils of his glare reaching down Roman’s throat, holding him fast, stealing the breath from his make-believe lungs.

“You good, Princey?” Virgil asked, his tone light as his features softened. He stooped down and gripped Roman’s hand, hauling him up to his feet before quickly stepping back.

“Oh, _yeah_ ,” Roman replied with every bit of conviction he had left in his body.

Which was, _precisely,_ none _._

“You look like shit, Ro,” Virgil noted, giving Roman a once over to emphasize his point.

Roman, in the midst of straightening his sash, paused the hand that was moments from raking through his hair and cleared his throat. Virgil smirked a bit at his antics and Roman didn’t know how in _Thomas’s name_ he was supposed to lie about where he was going.

_Again._

“I… didn’t get much sleep last night.” He admitted, forgoing the urge to fix his hair and letting his shoulders sag just a bit. Virgil nodded knowingly, though didn’t seem convinced that that was the whole story.

“Nightmare?” Virgil asked. The question was simple enough but the weight of his _understanding_ in that single word dropped like a stone into the hollow pit of Roman’s stomach. 

Roman said nothing but the look on his face must have clued Virgil in. He took a hesitant step forward, closing the distance between them a bit. Virgil was _literally_ stepping out of his comfort zone to offer what little comfort he could to Roman. 

“Wanna talk about it, Princey?” Virgil asked. 

_He did_.

If he was _honest_ with himself, Roman would like nothing more than to talk about the nightmare that had been plaguing him all day long. 

_Just not with Virgil._

“Thanks, Doctor Dismayed, but I think I’m good,” Roman said, managing to squeeze the last bit of emergency backup resolve he had to keep his tone light. 

Virgil did not seem impressed.

“C’mon Ro, I can almost _see_ it coming off you like… some kinda-” he gestured to the air around Roman for emphasis, “-fear-based _stink lines_! Trust me, I know nightmares suck but talking about them has always helped me feel better,” Virgil added encouragingly.

Something deep in the back of Roman’s mind _clicked_.

Why would the nightmare be leading him to _Virgil_ instead of _Remus_? He couldn’t feel _Virgil’s_ fear and, truthfully, probably wouldn’t _want_ to. Roman had known the instant he’d woken up last night that Remus was the source of it, and he’d always, _always_ been able to follow Remus’s-

_Unless…_

Roman bit back a curse as he rolled his eyes with every _ounce_ of animation he could muster. Virgil eyed him warily, but Roman couldn’t find the energy to care about that, he was _on to something_.

He hadn’t been following _Remus’s_ fear. 

_He’d been following his own._

It had been _hours_ since the initial jolt had woken him, Remus was probably over it by now. The more Roman thought about this the more aware he became that the lingering sensation of Remus’s fear had long since abated. He’d spent the better part of the morning working himself up over the ghost of a feeling that was no longer being felt. _Of course_ he couldn’t follow it to Remus!

“Actually…” Roman began, formulating a new plan as he spoke, “actually you’ve already helped me figure something out,” he added hastily, glancing over his shoulder to the hallway behind him. 

Virgil didn’t seem _quite_ ready to drop the subject, but he didn’t press Roman for more either. 

“I’ve got to go take care of something,” Roman continued, distracted by his epiphany, “but we’ll talk later,” He met Virgil’s eyes again and held them just a _bit_ easier this time, “On my _word_.” 

“Yeah… yeah alright,” Virgil said, apparently satisfied with Roman’s promise, though Roman knew he’d have to make good on it or risk breaking Virgil’s trust.

With a sharp salute Roman turned and strode into the halls once more, dreading what came next but _determined_ to see this through. He was left with only one option and, at this point, he would _almost_ rather jump into the lake from his dream.

He had to find _another_ feeling of Remus’s to follow.

Which meant Roman would have to open up his side of their connection to _find one._

_Which meant_ that, _somehow_ , his already _terrible_ day was about to get _worse_.

* * *

It was an _awful lot_ to ask of a side to cook up interesting traps while being _bombarded_ by the musical bombast of Roman’s conflicting emotions.

Remus was rather proud of himself for managing it.

For a while the volume had been fluctuating somewhat regularly, as if Roman had been wandering in circles. Then a crash of cymbals _just_ as Remus had been setting the trigger for the springboard — and hadn’t _that_ been fun? — before he’d finally managed to tune most of it out and _focus_. 

And not a _moment too soon_ , if Remus had anything to say about it, if he’d had to listen to the first few measures of the Blue Danube _one more time_ … Honestly Remus didn’t know _what_ he’d do, but it wouldn’t have been _pretty_.

Working in his room wasn’t the same as working in the imagination. It wasn’t as simple as thinking of something and sending it off to do its thing; maintaining constructs outside of the imagination took _effort_. Between _that_ and trying to block out Roman’s _feelings_ it was becoming more than a little _taxing_. 

Remus gingerly stepped around the pressure plates, shifting his weight to gauge the tension of the springboard now that it was _finally_ set. If _anything_ , he really was being _too nice_. 

He hadn’t even set any _lethal_ traps this time! 

Then again, it would hardly be _entertaining_ to watch Roman stumble through a meticulously planned labyrinth of death if he was even _half_ as exhausted as that single, sad french horn sounded. 

He picked his way carefully back to the couch and flopped gracelessly onto it, eliciting several _delightful_ shrieks from the battered springs. For a moment Remus considered turning back on his ‘movie’ but the thought of _yet another thing_ to focus on made him wince. He’d do better to wait for his brother to show up and keep the traps set than get distracted and just let Roman waltz into his room.

If Roman _really_ planned on barging in he’d better hurry up about it; Remus wouldn’t be able to keep this up all day.

* * *

Once Roman was _certain_ that Virgil’s room was far behind him, he came to an uneasy stop. With a breath that was meant to be steadying, but only succeeded in making him feel unmoored, Roman prepared for the next step. 

_‘This was a long time coming...’_ Roman thought as he took to pacing a tight track in the hall.

Unable to stay still but unwilling to spend any more time lost in the mindscape. 

The background static of his brother’s emotions fizzled and sparked at the edges of his mind. A dark, potent, crackling energy that he’d spent the better part of his life desperately pushing away. 

He forced himself to halt, his board-stiff posture throwing his balance for a moment, before he followed the momentum and swung right back into pacing. Raking a hand through his hair, he let out an indignant huff, turning sharply at the end of his circuit to begin again. His hands couldn’t quite make up their minds. 

_‘It’s been so long…’_ He continued, letting the rhythm of his pacing carry him through his tangled thoughts.

_Step, step, turn..._

His arms tucked in tight to his sides, hands clenching, unclenching and clenching again as he marched, back and forth, over and over. The steady beat of his footsteps echoed off the marble floor and through the empty hall. 

_One, two, three..._

His hands moved to rest on his hips as he rounded the circuit again; sliding around to the small of his back to try and stretch some of the tension out of his shoulders.

_Step, step, turn..._

One after the other, his hands carded through his hair as he turned. He stifled a growl of frustration, instead letting out a loud breath through his nose. 

_‘Perhaps… too long…’_

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d _actively_ tried to open their connection from his side. He wasn’t entirely sure he remembered _how..._

Roman threw himself against the opposite wall, crossing his arms tightly over his chest and settling his rigid back against the patterned, scarlet surface. Waltzing with his thoughts was pointless, he wasn’t about to let a little thing like _‘how’_ stop him. 

Not when he’d come this far!

_Forget thinking_ , Roman was tired and thinking was _hard_.

_Visualization_ , on the other hand, he could _do_.

With one more deep breath, Roman leaned his head back against the wall and let his already heavy eyelids fall closed. 

There, in the familiar dark, he _reached_.

Tentatively, at first, Roman mentally traced the boundaries of his visualized form for the nebulous connection he had never been able to break with his brother. It was slow-going and the closer he got, the slower it went. 

_He pictured a door._

_Gold and silver, green and red._

A _Jingle-jolly_ Christmas _nightmare_ of a door.

An _old_ door that no longer existed anywhere in the mindscape, yet he could picture it so _clearly_ , as if it had never changed. It was far away, just a glittering speck on the horizon of his mind, but Roman was heading for it with _purpose_ now.

It was a door to _before._

_Before._

That’s all he ever thought of it as. A time _before_ , when he and Remus had shared a room, when they had been _inseparable_. A time when the imagination had been _whole_ and creation was _joy_ and there was nothing on earth they couldn’t… _wouldn’t_ do.

_Together._

Something _cold_ slithered between his ribs and curled around the empty space just to the right of the glowing warmth Roman could always feel from his core.

_It pulled_.

_Roman followed._

The door grew larger as the force pulled him towards it. Green and silver, red and gold, spiraling together towards the gleaming two-toned knob in the center of the door. 

He stretched out his hand, which fit around the doorknob like it was made for him, it turned smoothly.

_Roman opened his eyes._

The bright green door glared at him from across the hall. 

Grinding his shoulders deeper into the wall, Roman forced himself to _breathe_ as he glared right back at it. 

He’d finally found his brother’s door.

Now the _real_ battle began and Roman _loathed it._

He’d done this too many times before to warrant such _cowardice_.

Too many times had he paced this same floor, fought this same dragon of indecision, stared down this same damn _door_. For Roman, this was a well-worn battleground, one on which he had suffered great losses in the past. 

On those days he had paced and hemmed and hawed, struggling to reach out. To knock upon the door and face not _Remus_ , but the cavernous distance he had allowed to grow between them. On those dark days he would stand, staring down the scratched and flaking green paint and, ultimately, decide that opening those old wounds wasn’t worth the effort. 

Roman _failed_ on those days. Not only failing himself, but Remus too, forced to walk away with the bitter taste of it. Those same old wounds left unopened, yes, but left to _fester_ instead.

Roman shifted against the wall once more as the inevitable wave of regret washed over him. He could feel the fabric of his sash bunching uncomfortably between his shoulder blades, which momentarily distracted him from the piercing stab of guilt sliding between his ribs. 

For a moment he wondered…

If _Remus_ were holding that dagger, would he be smiling? Would he derive some sort of demented joy from the anguish twisting in Roman’s very _core_ like that selfsame metaphorical blade?

Roman shook his head sharply to clear the imagery from his mind. With a sigh so heavy it toed the border between frustrated and _desperate_ , Roman scrubbed his left hand over his face. It clutched tightly at his jaw, half covering his mouth; the thumb pressed so hard into the hollow of his cheek that he could _nearly_ feel his teeth. With all of this melancholy self-pitying was it already too late to win the day? 

_No._

Roman’s eyes widened and his jaw went slack at the unexpected _certainty_ of that realization. Loosening its death grip on his jaw, his hand gestured vaguely, and to no one, as he came to grips with that singular resolution. 

“No…” he said aloud that time, his voice hushed and unsure. 

No, of _course_ it wasn’t too late... 

It was _never_ too late! 

There had been _other_ days on this field, days when Roman had triumphed over his nemesis, _the door_. Days when the memories of _before_ were too strong to brush aside for his own temporary comfort. Memories which spurred him on to _make_ that leap of faith, across the chasm they had both dug between them, and knock upon Remus’s — _his brother’s —_ door. 

_To try._

With one last, mighty, huff he shook his head and shoved himself off the wall. He let the momentum carry him across the hall, steeling himself with each ever-steadying step. Rolling his shoulders, Roman raised his fist to knock on the door. 

No more dallying, no more indecision! 

He was _really_ going to do it this time…

With a shrill groan of hinges that Roman could _swear_ were mocking him, the door had the _gall_ to swing open of its own accord. The heavy shadows of the space within yawning wide, in some kind of macabre invitation. Whether it was Remus’s doing or the door’s, Roman couldn’t say…

But, if there was one thing he _couldn’t_ refuse, it was a _challenge_. 

Drawing himself up to his full height, Roman stepped brazenly across the threshold. The moment he entered Remus’s room a wave of dizziness crashed over him, halting him just beyond the door.

_It was a trap._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Specific Warnings:  
> mention of nightmares, character unable to shake a nightmare.
> 
> It's not a lot this chapter, still early days.


End file.
